


are you satisfied?

by selenedaydreams



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Champions League, FC Bayern München, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26090551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/pseuds/selenedaydreams
Summary: In a few minutes, he will clean them up. But for now, Robert lays down beside him, turning onto his side so they’re facing each other. Thomas is already almost half asleep, fighting to keep his eyes open. “When we do it again next year, you can tell me if the second time feels better than the first.”
Relationships: Robert Lewandowski/Thomas Müller
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	are you satisfied?

**Author's Note:**

> title from MARINA's _are you satisfied?_
> 
> this fic is a trojan horse where the wooden horse is a seemingly innocent celebratory fic and the greeks inside are my slavic/balkan feelings. even if that isn't your niche, i hope you enjoy it anyway! 
> 
> to my bayern fronds, i hope i did them justice <3

Their victory registers immediately.

The whistle blows. The game stops. And PSG players collapse onto the pitch in grief and disbelief at coming so close but still not close enough.

They won.

They won the Champions League.

They won the fucking _treble_.

He kneels to the ground too, pounds his fists against the earth, looking for something solid to touch so he can assure himself that this is real. The ground is cold and damp against his forehead when leans down and closes his eyes. He can hear Thomas and Ivan and Thiago are shouting in excitement near him, screaming at the top of their lungs that they won.

Even when one of them tries shaking him out of his reverie, it still doesn’t feel real.

He’s barely had a sip of beer but he already feels dazed and heady when he’s handed the trophy. Its cold, solid weight grounds him - a pleasant reminder that this is, in fact, real. He reminds himself of that again for the hundredth time tonight. Eventually, it will sink in. If he lets himself really think about it, it’s almost comical that the last time he had been this close to it, he had been on the other side. Some of his current teammates had been his opponents - _his rivals_. In 2013, he could never have imagined that in just seven years, he’d be where he is now.

Thomas slides up to him with a mischievously questioning expression. “You look like you want to make love to it.” He says, eying the trophy still clasped firmly in his hands. “I don’t think UEFA would like that.”

“Since when do you care what UEFA thinks?”

“I don’t. Not at all.” Thomas holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You can make sweet, sweet love to it all night long for all I care.”

Robert laughs because how else is he supposed to say to that? He can’t even tell if Thomas is closer to drunk than to sober because that is something that he’d say even if there was no alcohol involved. It’s refreshing, really. Even in moments like these, Thomas never takes himself too seriously. Guess he’s had enough practice.

“C’mon.” He says, leading Robert over to where their teammates are already well on their way to getting properly plastered. “It’s actually illegal not to get drunk when you win a treble.”

Who is Robert to argue with that? Thomas would know better than him.

Running to the benches to get his Polish flag is a habit by now. Not something that he ever really has to think about. It’s simple - when the final whistle of an important match blows, he grabs his flag and wraps it tightly around his waist. Arranges it nicely, makes sure that it’s neat and visible in every single picture.

When they line up for pictures, Robert picks Ivan out of the crowd. His eyes traveling down to the Croatian flag wrapped tightly around his waist, a mirror image of the Polish flag wrapped around him. It’s only now that he realizes that they’re the only ones wrapped up in their respective nation’s flags. The only ones with the seemingly innate compulsion to brand themselves with a symbol of where they are from.

Robert wonders if it means the same thing for Ivan as it does for him?

See me. See _us_. We can achieve great things too.

It’s almost two in the morning by the time they make it back to the hotel which is about half an hour after they finished all of the beer at their disposal. Robert doesn’t think he’s ever seen Kathleen that drunk before.

Being drunk helps. Because if this weren’t a special occasion, he wouldn’t have consumed an almost lethal amount of alcohol. Their group becomes smaller and smaller until finally, it’s just him and Thomas on the elevator. Robert watches him sway from side to side in rhythm to an imaginary tune. It makes him smile. Thomas has never been able to stay still for as long as he’s known him. Always buzzing with too much energy.

"Are you still thinking about it?" Thomas asks as they step off the elevator onto their floor, shoving at Robert before clumsily wrapping his arm around his shoulders to pull him close.

Robert doesn’t have to ask for clarification to know what he’s referring to. "I wanted at least one goal."

Robert can smell the beer on his breath when Thomas laughs close to his face, loud and sharp. "Bullshit. You wanted nothing less than a hattrick to beat Ronaldo's record."

And that…

Yeah. Robert can't deny that. He wanted it no matter how unrealistic it was. Then again, beating Barcelona eight to two wasn't exactly realistic either and they made it happen. So why couldn’t he net a hattrick against PSG in Champions League final? Why wasn’t he allowed to dream of that?

"A treble is still not enough for you," Thomas says, looking directly at him. There's a fondness in his tone that Robert can’t shake. Doesn't want to shake either. It washes over him and envelops him in a comfortable warmth because on some level, Thomas has always understood him.

Robert wants to bite back that he bets it's not enough for him either. That he definitely wishes he would have scored the winning goal. Or been the captain for this campaign. Because how else is he supposed to distinguish between this treble and the one from seven years ago?

In the end, it's easier to shove Thomas against the hallway wall and kiss him. Hard. Too much teeth and tongue and holding onto Thomas' hip hard enough to bruise.

Because he can. Because he knows that Thomas likes it. If he didn't, why would he moan directly into his mouth and fist his hand into the front of his shirt? If Thomas needs a reminder in the morning that this was real, maybe finger-shaped bruises on his hips will help.

It doesn't take long for Thomas to reverse their positions - shove at him until Robert is the one plastered against the wall. This has always been his favorite part about being with Thomas. He never backs down.

"I was gonna say goalscorer gets to top but since neither one of us scored…" Thomas pauses for dramatic effect, biting sharply at his neck. "Guess whoever got a higher rating on FotMob tops."

“I’m the top scorer for the season.” Robert protests as Thomas fishes into his pocket for his phone. “I should get to top.”

Thomas scoffs at him. “So you just assume I got a higher rating?” It takes him a moment to open the app and compare their two ratings, thinking for a moment that they’re the same before registering the minute difference. “Which, I didn’t. _You_ did. By .6 points.”

Robert wishes that he didn’t feel as validated as he does. FotMob ratings don’t actually mean anything. The ratings assigned don’t even make sense half the time. And yet. They’re saying that he contributed more to their win.

And they give him permission to shove Thomas down onto the bed the moment that they step inside their hotel room. In their haste, he doesn’t even bother locking the door. It doesn’t matter.

Robert isn’t careful when he’s finally on top of him. He knows what Thomas can handle and that lengthy list definitely includes him leaning all of his weight onto him, pressing him down into the mattress as far as possible. What he doesn’t expect are Thomas’ fingers gently skimming over the portion of skin exposed by his bunched up shirt. “Slow down,” Thomas says, gentle but commanding.

“Too old for rough sex?” Robert teases but slows down nonetheless. Taking this time to rid them of their clothes (something they should have probably done before laying down but hey, beer and logic aren’t a popular mix).

“You’re literally older than me.” Thomas scrunches up his nose at that. “Grandpa. Are you sure _you’re_ not too old for this?”

“Shut up.” Robert has half a mind to shove a pillow over his face because focusing on responding to Thomas’ relentless teasing and trying to rummage through his luggage for the lube is close to impossible.

“This one means more than last time,” Thomas says as Robert finally finds the small bottle, voice softer and more serious than before. “I know first times are usually supposed to mean more but...I don’t know. I feel like I played a bigger role here. I was a leader.”

“Does it mean more than the World Cup did?” Robert asks because he’s an idiot. The question flies out of his mouth before he can swallow it down and forget it.

Thomas shakes his head immediately with a kind of decisiveness that makes Robert’s chest ache. “No. Nothing means more or feels better than winning the World Cup.”

Right. Of course, it doesn’t. Robert agrees wholeheartedly too. He would trade away this treble in a heartbeat for...really, any trophy with Poland but especially the World Cup.

Still. A small part of him hoped that the answer would be yes. Even if it was just Thomas’ drunken opinion. Even if he just agreed with him because he was too drunk to continue the conversation. It’s disappointing to know that there is something that feels better than this. Most people don’t ever get to settle for a treble so...he should probably be thankful for that.

Thomas taps his forehead, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Earth to Lewandowski. Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

Oh, Thomas is definitely getting a pillow shoved over his face now. “I should just make you ride me. I’d be easier.”

Thomas’ voice is muffled by the pillow as he tries to fight back. “Nah. You like being in control too much.”

There are a few things that Robert hates about Thomas but none more than how perceptive he is and unafraid to let you know that he’s figured you out. Thomas has the ability to make you feel vulnerable in a terrifying way.

Again, it’s easier to just kiss him. Drip lube all over the sheets and shove two fingers inside him. They have done this enough times for Robert to know just how rough he can be. That he can eventually manhandle Thomas onto his hands and knees and slide in without warning.

It’s sloppier than usual, Thomas falls down more than a couple of times, choosing to brace himself on his elbows after a while. Which...is beyond obscene. There is nothing shy about the way Thomas fucks. He is confident and enthusiastic and not afraid to reach behind him to grab Robert’s hips and pull him in deeper. “Harder. I wanna feel it tomorrow.”

He is nothing if not excellent at following directions. He fucks Thomas hard enough to risk breaking the bed frame. It’s the only way he knows how to, he swallowed down all finesse with his fifth beer. It’s fine. From the way Thomas is chanting his name over and over again, he clearly doesn’t mind. And if Robert closes his eyes, this is actually almost a decent substitute for tonight’s missing crowd.

Robert manages to remember to pull out at the last moment and finishes on Thomas’ back instead. This way, they won’t have to shower until tomorrow morning. Not that they were going to anyway. But this is better - more comfortable for Thomas. For both of them.

In a few minutes, he will clean them up. But for now, Robert lays down beside him, turning onto his side so they’re facing each other. Thomas is already almost half asleep, fighting to keep his eyes open. “When we do it again next year, you can tell me if the second time feels better than the first.”

Robert laughs quietly, shoving him lightly. “Don’t jinx it.”

Eventually, Robert stands up on shaking legs to find the nearest towel (which isn’t actually that near, needing to trek all the way to the bathroom for one). He wipes himself down before cleaning up Thomas’ back, being careful not to wake him. When he lays back down beside him, sleep already settling in for him too, his thoughts drift to the Ballon d’Or. What could have been.

Then again, maybe...it’s better that it was canceled. Who’s to say that Thomas wouldn’t have won it over him?

**Author's Note:**

> \- i realize that this fic takes place during pandemic football but seeing as fic is an act of escapism for me, i chose not to mention it. plus...if i made it that realistic then i couldn’t make a joke about lewy jizzing on the trophy because that would be a health hazard sooooo  
> \- but in a seriousness, [i’m pretty sure lewy fucked the trophy](https://twitter.com/433/status/1297822493781221376)  
> \- YOU KNOW WHAT SUCKERED ME INTO THIS? THAT GOOD OL’ SLAVIC SADNESS. there is just something so perfectly tragic about the juxtaposition between lewy and thomas that is riiiiight up my alley.  
> \- side note, does it fuck anyone else up that thomas is taller than lewy? because finding that out fucked me up. anyway, [this photoset has no business making me feel so much](https://thomasmuellerfcbayern.tumblr.com/post/627348763348959232)  
> \- if i got any minuscule detail wrong please don't tell me because i will cry for approx. 1000 years and deem this fic a failure   
> \- i hope you enjoyed! you can find me on [tumblr](https://ikercasiillas.tumblr.com/) where i don't actually support bayern, i just adopt all balkans and slavs


End file.
